


Even Fairytale Characters Would Be Jealous

by sparksofwrite



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:46:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparksofwrite/pseuds/sparksofwrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything I said last night when we were in the car, telling you I knew I knew I knew that we would make it far. Everyone in this town will see that someone like you could be with someone like me. (Ymir/Christa, fluffy oneshot, modern AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even Fairytale Characters Would Be Jealous

**Author's Note:**

> Ymir is an adorable dork in my other fic. I wanted to practice writing her slightly more accurately.   
> Titular song can be found here: youtube.com/watch?v=TXSFkzcpPCA

You’ve known Christa for years.

 

You’ve known her since she was white-blond and tiny. When you met on that first day of elementary school, you were both missing your front teeth. You bonded over being able to drink apple juice by putting the straw through the gaps in your mouths.

 

Even back then, everyone loved Christa. She was kind to everyone, including people who weren’t worthy of it— you know that better than anyone. She deserved more friends than she had. For some reason, she stuck by you, even though the other children were repelled by you to the point that they would stay away from her as well. You only began to feel bad about that once you got older. You never were particularly sensitive to people’s feelings, but you made somewhat of an effort with her.

 

Today, you’re both seventeen. Christa is as well-liked and unpopular as she’s ever been.  She’s more of a golden blond now, but she’s still tiny with a full set of teeth. You’re missing one, but you have a fake tooth in its place. Annie’s punches have never been forgiving.

 

You pull up in front of her house late at night, uninvited as ever. Putting the car in park, you take out your phone and scroll through your nearly-empty address book until you get to _Christa Renz._ You tap her name and put the phone to your ear.

 

It rings three times before she answers. “Hello?” She draws out the second syllable; you must have woken her up. You almost feel guilty.

 

“It’s me. We’re going for a drive.”

 

The girl on the other end of the line sighs a little. “Alright. I’ll be outside in a minute.”

 

You hang up. That’s Christa, you understand. Always putting up with you.  

 

True to form, Christa only takes about a minute before she’s opening the passenger’s side door. She’s wearing pajama pants and an oversized sweatshirt, sneakers and an exasperated smile. “Okay,” she says once she’s strapped in, rubbing her eyes. “I’m up. Where are we going?” Her voice is still soft from sleep.

 

“Dunno,” you say, shifting into drive. “Around.”

 

“Sounds good. Did you do the homework for math?”

  
“Do I ever?” You start off down the road.

 

“Good point.” Christa yawns. “Someday you’re going to have to do your homework, or you’ll fail the tests.”

 

“I’m too good at math. It’s a waste of time,” you say mildly.

 

“What about English and history?”

 

“Them too. I’m too smart for those stupid teachers. They keep calling the guidance counselors on me because they’re jealous.”

 

Christa pauses. “I don’t think that’s exactly why they do it.”

 

“Whatever. I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” you say dismissively. There are a few unspoken rules between you and her. _Don’t tell Ymir she needs help with anything_ is one of them, so you’re a little surprised the conversation got that far. Your surprise makes it hard to get angry at her, so you chalk it up to Christa’s exhaustion and keep driving. A lot of factors make it hard for you to get angry at Christa. The way your heart beats faster when you’re together, or the broken sort of way she smiles.

 

“Fine. What do you want to talk about?”

 

“Dunno, you pick.”

 

“I already did and you didn’t want to keep going. So it’s your turn.”

 

“Fine. Keep going with that train of thought. See where it goes.”

  
You can practically feel Christa’s glare. “I didn’t get out of bed at two in the morning so you could threaten me.”

 

A convenient red light gives you a chance to look over and match her angry expression. “You didn’t have to get out of bed at all. You could have told me to fuck off and let you sleep.”

 

“And I didn’t. Are you trying to make me regret it?”

 

You’re not sure what to say to this. Remorse starts to nip at your heels like some useless puppy, and you shove it aside like you would if it really were an animal. The light turns green and you proceed in silence. You suddenly have an idea, and it takes a minute of self-encouragement before you can spit it out.

 

 “How are _you_ doing? With everything?” You manage, keeping your eyes on the road and definitely not looking at her surprised expression in your peripheral vision.

 

She seems to recover quickly, and replies, “What are you asking about, exactly?”

 

“Guess.”

 

“Considering we haven’t talked about my problems in a while, you probably just want to get the attention off of yours,” she says way too casually.

 

You almost slam the brakes with how off-guard her comment catches you. “What, I can’t ask you something because I care?” You demand, probably not helping your case any.

 

“I’d like to believe you can,” Christa says, gently. “Convince me.”

 

“Has your mom been okay? Like… t-to you?” You curse the affect she has on you. Reprimanding you is her ability and hers alone. Her calm assertiveness makes you stammer sometimes when it comes out of nowhere.

 

“She still pretends I don’t exist, and she’s not giving me any help with college. It’s looking like I won’t be able to go at this rate.”

 

The way her voice gets quiet at the end gives you pause, and you almost start to silently pray that she doesn’t start crying. “That sucks. Wow,” you offer. You know how heavily she’s banking on the future, and you just wish you were a little more eloquent.

 

“I’ll work something out, I guess.”

 

“I know you will,” you say, surprising yourself probably as much as her. Christa is silent, and you rummage through your brain for something else to ask. The Venn diagram of things you’re curious about and things you’re not brave enough to say is a perfect circle.

 

You want to say, _I know you’re in pain and I’m sorry and I wish I could do something other than make you sneak out of your house at night to get your mind off of things._ You want to kiss the scars inside her arms just as much as you want to slap her for doing that to herself just as much as you want to die for letting it happen. But the first option is a bad idea all around, the second isn’t something you could ever bear to do and the last is an absurd notion. To think you have any control over what she does to herself is wrong, plain and simple. Healing is up to the person doing the recovering. You know this very, very well.

 

You come to the elementary school and pull into the parking lot. Shifting from drive to park, you ask, “Wanna go on the swings?”

 

“Sure,” she says, unbuckling herself. The sound of your car doors slamming creates an echo in the stillness of the early morning, and you lead the way past the jungle gym the two of you used to climb as children. You would always claim it in your and Christa’s name, before some dumb kid would go crying to a teacher that you wouldn’t let them on the monkey bars. Christa was always the one to apologize.

 

You use your sleeve to wipe the dew off both swing seats. Sitting in one, you watch as she smiles her appreciation and sits on the other, wrapping her sweatshirt-covered hands around the chains. She pushes herself forward and back with her feet touching the ground, and you mimic her movements, not really paying attention.

 

“So,” Christa begins.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Are you thinking about what you’ll do after high school?”

 

“This second?”

 

“At all.”

 

“Nah,” you say. “Not really.”

 

“You must have some idea,” she says somewhat worriedly.

 

You deliberate for a moment whether to make this leap, and your last thought before you finally do is a common one for you: _Fuck it._ “I’m gonna run away somewhere.”

 

“What?” Christa looks to you, but you were already staring at her.

 

You declare, “I’m just gonna pack my shit and leave. They’ll kick me out when I turn eighteen anyway.” At this you look away, taking interest in your shoes. Christa is silent— this never happens, you talking about your home situation. You don’t really care to elaborate on that any more, but you push on: “I mean, my foster parents kind of hate me. So we’ll have no problem letting go of each other. But like, where the fuck am I supposed to go? I’ll tell you where,” you say. “New Mexico.”

 

“What?” She repeats, a trace of laughter in her voice that you know isn’t meant to be mocking.

 

“I’ll go to New Mexico. Just take a road trip there and find a job doing whatever. Live in my car or something. It’s never gonna get cold, and there won’t be much rain. I’ll exist for me and for nobody else.” You aren’t thinking about what you mean by that, or how Christa might take it.

 

So when she says “Ymir, you…” and stops, you don’t know what to think. She looks down at her feet at the same time you look up from yours. Neither of you bother to push yourselves on the swings; instead you’re just sitting there.

 

“What?” You ask after a moment of silence.

 

“I just… that’s a really nice idea,” Christa says, her voice soft with unshed tears. Your eyes widen.

 

“Aw, Christa,” you groan, masking your concern. Christa has cried in front of you more than once, for reasons varying from scraped six-year-old knees to her mother who threatens to kill herself when Christa argues with her. You push yourself sideways enough that the two of you bump swings, when what you really want to do is put your arms around her. “Come on. Please don’t cry.”

 

“Sorry,” she says, “I just…” And then she’s really crying, sobbing quietly like only a very practiced crier can. Your heart literally hurts. _Goddammit._

 

Sighing, you slide off your swing and move to stand in front of her. You touch one of her hands, and she lets go of the chain, allowing you to press your palms together. There’s no skin-to-skin contact; her sleeves still fall past her fingertips, but the warmth of her hand against the chilly night air makes your heartbeat splutter. Once you have her hand, you pull her up off the swing and lead her back to your car.

 

You open the passenger’s side door for her and let her get in as you walk over to the driver’s side. Once you’re settled, she is too, and she seems to have stopped sobbing, at least. There are still silent tears on her face, and your chest still hurts. You don’t really know what to do, but something tells you she needs your attention right now, so you don’t start driving.  You twist in your seat until you’re leaning on the center console. “You okay?” Your voice is cautious, and she seems to notice.

 

She laughs a little. “Kind of.”

 

“What’s making you upset?”

 

“I just…” She wipes her eyes with her sleeve. “I don’t want you to do that. Go to New Mexico, I mean.”

 

Without thinking, you ask, “Why not?”

 

“It’s really selfish and I’m sorry,” she says quickly, probably under the impression that you’re going to be angry with her. You want to tell her you are the queen of selfish and that she doesn’t need to be sorry, but she is probably aware of the former, and now is not the time for the latter.  “But I’m probably going to be stuck here. And I don’t want you to leave me,” she admits.

 

Your heart seems to swell until it fills your entire ribcage. “Come with me,” you murmur in what you hope is a comforting tone of voice. You hope she can’t tell that you’re begging. You never thought of it like this, outside of daydreams. You imagined Christa going off to some university, meeting some nice guy and settling down. The two of you would keep in touch until she met him, and then she would forget you.

 

Her tears don’t stop when she looks at you.

 

“I mean it,” you say. “We’ll go south and rent a shitty apartment and I’ll work like six jobs and we’ll get married and all that—” You stop. _Shit._

 

Christa’s wet eyes are bigger than usual. You take this as an invitation to explain yourself, and quickly.

 

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to—“

 

“Did you just apologize?”

 

You blink. “Y-yeah. I’m just—“

 

“The first time you ever apologize to anyone and it’s over something you shouldn’t even be sorry for?” Christa smiles weakly, striking you mute. “Ymir, listen. You have the worst personality ever and nobody knows why I put up with you. But I swear I’d do anything for you.”

 

“…Thanks?” You laugh, short and relieved and confused.

 

“It was a compliment.” She reaches over with both arms and hugs you around your neck, neither of you acknowledging the awkward position or the fact that your heart seems to have hummingbird wings. “Wherever you go, I’ll go. Once this school thing is all over…” she kisses your neck, “…marry me.”   

 

You’ve never said a more emphatic _yes._


End file.
